Eheu Fugaces Labuntur Anni
by Intervigilium
Summary: Challenge Fic, "The Alas! Earwax Match". Contestants had a week to write 1000-2500 words about "Power". My opponent wrote: /s/11529995/1/The-Mercury-Chronicles-Scandal


DISCLAIMER: Don't own the characters, don't own the world. This story was written backwards, but it'll make more sense this way. Hopefully.

" _Learn how to see. Realize that everything connects to everything else."_

(Leonardo da Vinci)

 **1333**.

His father, always following the twinkle of his son's eyes, would repeat it until it was a creed.

"If you don't know where to go, make a compass with the stars, my son."

His mother, who loved him above all things, smiled approvingly.

"Ils sont votre guide. Ils sont votre destin."

They smiled so brightly. Ever since the boy could remember anything, he'd been driven by light. How the sun dazzled the eye if held for more than a few seconds, or the peaceful mirror of a placid lake that offered him another shimmering moon to admire. How he felt it shine inside his own body as the ideas flared and the world could be shaped with his fingertips.

Light was shifting, everlasting beauty. Warm. Strong.

Nicolas started working on his compass at a very young age.

* * *

" _I will love the light, for it shows me the way; yet I will endure the darkness, for it shows me the stars."_

(Og Mandino)

 **1338**.

His compass spun aimlessly the day his father died.

"It was an accident", they said. He didn't remember being excused from school – it was only his first year at Beauxbatons. He had no recollection of arriving home or the pity inside his relatives' embraces. The one thing his brain decided to forge solid memory out of was his mother's distant contemplation. How the brightness of her eyes – supernovas in magnetism – now flickered whenever he came into sight. Then she fixed his hair and placed a soft, barely shaking hand over his cheek, and she told him how glad she was to see so much of his father in him.

Then there was a grave, the final rites and the hands on his shoulder; a blur of cloaks and rain that somehow ended in his family library and the solace of dusty tomes. Books he couldn't comprehend, symbols he couldn't unravel.

Yet.

Somewhere in there, he was certain, was the cure for his mother's sadness. And if it wasn't there, it would be somewhere else. He would study and grow stronger. He would find a way to battle the corners of his mind where pain lurked and sorrow ruled unchecked.

He would not let anyone suffer the way they now did.

Nicolas willed himself to conquer death.

* * *

" _There is no good and evil. There is only power and those too weak to seek it."_

(Tom M. Riddle)

 **1342**.

The vibrant boy never returned to Beauxbatons. In his place, a different Nicolas now sat with his classmates to learn his way through boyhood. It may surprise some that there's only so much that magic can do to soften the tougher parts of the process.

While not aloof, he was never entirely with them. He'd exhibit the smiles he practiced after his Housemates were asleep, and he'd recite in his head whatever interesting bit of reading he'd done in the last few days to get through the small talk that didn't interest him anymore.

Nothing could deter him in his thirst. He had a purpose in life; his purpose _was_ life.

Nicolas would have time to listen to Adelard go on and on about his nocturnal escapades to meet Maëlis in the future.

* * *

" _Lead will play its role until the world has no further need for lead; and then lead will have to turn itself into gold."_

(Paulo Coelho)

 **1347**.

After graduation he disappeared, only to be – rarely – found by Floccus, the family owl. Letters from home only slowed him down these days.

He was searching far and wide for methods of healing or expanding a wizard's life expectancy, broadening the horizons he could only fantasize about back in school. His quest led him to corners of the world he could not describe with mere words, into libraries carved in stone, forgotten by time and men. He met prophets and wanderers, scoundrels and saints.

But the closer he got to the hidden truths of the world, the further he seemed to stray from his compass' north. Most – if not all – the methods he learned of to maximize lifespan – all that broached even slightly the idea of immortality – seemed to involve sacrifices even Nicolas, with all his righteous purpose and juvenile enthusiasm, wasn't entirely sure he could make. He felt anchored, held back, as if his travelling bag weighted far more than it actually did.

He would only discover how heavy it was the day he found the fabled last journal of Vincent Metzen. The item, presumed lost with the rest of the grand duelist's possessions, whispered dark words into Nicolas' ears; it was hot to the touch, even after ages encased within a cold tomb. Metzen's last words bore a hole through the young man's heart.

 _For now I find this power gained is more unto a curse._

 _My spirit burns with every spell and each irreverent verse._

 _Despite this strength and knowledge earned, I have paid a heavy toll._

 _Never should have traded power for my own immortal soul._

Almost out of instinct, Nicolas reached for his bag. Inside, he found a crumpled letter, immediately stashed upon delivery, still sealed. Only two words inside – it was his mother's handwriting.

 _Reviens vite._

He could no longer tell if the paper was wet from the rain or his own tears. For the first time, he truly allowed his child self some time to grief; to apologize to his father and promise to be a better son from now on.

Unicorn blood?

… _Horcruxes_?

What was he thinking?

"What's the point of living, if I won't feel alive?" he asked, no one but his echo around to agree.

Or so he thought, as the hooded figure, runes sewn all over her cloak, watched him from a safe distance. The elderly woman smiled, running a finger over the spine of a thick, leather-bound book. She had been watching Nicolas for a long, long time.

"It is about time he started asking the right questions."

* * *

" _A farewell is necessary before you can meet again."_

(Richard Bach)

 **1353**.

Avignon was stone and soul; but even its silent beauty faced hard days. The presence of Pope Innocent VI, important as it was, did little to hide the physical and emotional scars the Black Death left in its destructive path.

The sickness across the world had troubled Flamel to no end throughout the years, and it brought up many heated debates with his mentors. While half of his heart understood the importance of guarding the philosophical principles and mysteries they shared with him ever since that fateful rainy day, the other half simply wanted to make the world better. He sighed, knowing there was only so much a dabbler in the matters of Alchemy could do against nature.

The fleet-footed thief hit a bony shoulder against his elbow, waking Flamel from his reverie. It was just a child, running for his life while holding the contents of his pull close against his chest.

The wand barely moved, concealed under the long cloak, and his lips didn't move. But the child still hit what could only be an invisible wall with a dry thud, scattering the contents of the stolen satchel all around the street; Flamel picked them up one by one, the thief still gasping for air. He examined closely a glass phial that should have been smashed to bits, but remained pristine, a green liquid swirling inside.

 _Interesting._

"I have a felling this is not yours," he said, approaching the boy and offering him a hand up. Suspicious eyes scanned him up and down, not accepting the help. He sprung to his feet, limping half a step as he ignored what looked like a bruised ankle and ran away from the wizard. Flamel watched him go, contemplating if he should chase the boy to see if he could offer some help.

Thievery, at the time, wasn't a choice for some.

"Not many men would offer a hand to a thief."

He turned around to find the voice behind him. She had intelligent eyes and – he could tell even from under the gloves – beautiful hands.

"He is just a boy", he said, lifting the satchel. "And I believe this is yours."

"It is – thank you. He caught me," she paused, suddenly concentrated on his face, "distracted."

"I find that hard to believe." And he meant it.

"Well, some of _us_ try to be more discreet than others," she quipped, lowering her tone. "But I will admit it was a crafty spell. You have learned a few things."

Something about her words sounded odd. She saw his confusion and smiled. It was a bright smile.

"I can hardly blame you for not remembering me. We met very briefly at Beauxbatons – I was just arriving and you were about to leave – but you left quite a legacy there, _Monsieur_ Flamel. Rare was the day that we weren't reminded of your achievements by a professor or two," she explained, still smiling.

Embarrassed, he was at a loss for words, and the young lady laughed. "Why do I get the feeling that, from all that I've told you, the only thing you heard was that you're still boyish enough that a girl who barely saw you at school could identify you?"

That earned her a smile. "I did try growing a beard," he confessed.

"Perhaps you should try again."

"Perhaps. Now, we have established you know my name. Will you take pity and share yours, so I can remember it properly?"

He noticed his hand was still holding the small bag. She pulled it gently, never looking away.

"Perenelle!" a feminine voice called, not far behind them.

"That," she indicated, still looking him straight in the eye, "would be Anne. And I am Perenelle." She looked behind once, then back at him. "I'm terribly sorry, but I have to leave. Are you staying in town, Mons –"

" – Nicolas will do just fine," he said, true sadness covering his eyes. "My business here is quick, I'm afraid – I have to leave tomorrow. But we'll meet again, I'm sure."

Somehow, he knew – he _knew_ – it to be true. He was going to see her again.

She gifted him with that same smile.

"It's a big world, Nicolas."

He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle, parting kiss. "Indeed. We'll have to do our best to see it."

The next morning, a wizard taught a young thief how to find good fishing spots at the Rhône. He offered knowledge and gear for a promise.

To the day he died, the boy never stole again.

Flamel watched the joyful young man spring fish after fish out of the river, but he could only see intelligent eyes everywhere.

* * *

"Nicolas, this is –"

He knew what it was. He felt the same amazement when he stared at the intricate formulae, the phials, patterns and books for the first time. Yet her reaction fascinated him even more than any new method or discovery ever did.

Her hands ran along a simple wooden desk. She recognized his calligraphy, a few parchments neatly arranged. And at the center, covered by a shield she could feel but not see, there was a strange contraption composed of golden claws pointing up, bolted to a highly ornate circular base. The claws held nothing.

"So that's where – "

" – I hope to store _it_ one day, yes."

Silence.

"Who knows about this?"

"You. And, well, me," he added sheepishly, as if they didn't know each other for as long as they now did.

"She looked back at the hidden door where he still stood. Her eyes sparkled.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you will forgive me one day. Or that you will at least try to."

She sounded sincere when she asked him why.

"For not telling you the truth sooner." He stared at the walls, looking ashamed. "I wanted to have something more – _tangible_ to show you, but the fact is, however close I may be to anything, I – I cannot go forward without you." He sought her, only to find she was inches away from him. Her hands framed his face, and he caressed them with his own. "I do not _want_ to go forward without you," and he never meant anything like he meant those words.

She stubbornly kept the tears from falling before their lips touched.

"You are not going anywhere without me, Nicolas Flamel," she said, smiling that first smile all over again. "And we still have a big world to see."

* * *

 _"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair._

 _Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets._

 _Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day_

 _I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps."_

 _(Pablo Neruda)_

 **1762**.

 _Salt, Sulfur and Mercury._

He watched her sleep, caressing her naked back, fascinated by her peaceful breathing and how it made the curves of her body rise and fall ever so slightly. Every time a different, prettier pattern.

 _The three philosophical principles of Alchemy. When one begins to see and experience these three principles, the entire world begins to transform._

Perenelle was his medium to the universe. His dedication for knowledge, the long road of his life, it had been certainly fruitful – but until she arrived, it was devoid of meaning.

She made his masters' teachings real; his wife kept him grounded, focused. And when they held the Stone together, a promise of centuries of companionship and love before them, then and only then he felt true power.

He could hear the _ópera_ near them. She had insisted that they came, knowing how much he loved it – but she was simply too irresistible for him to share her with the rest of the world that night.

Nicolas Flamel loved, indeed. And because of it, the world was his to shape.

* * *

 _"'To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all - the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things which are worst for them.'"_

(Albus Dumbledore)

 **1992**.

"We could hide it again."

"We could."

"I could make a proper dungeon. The deep caves under the Casull Pass."

"As impenetrable a place as we could find, really."

He didn't need to turn around to know his wife was smiling kindly, not really agreeing to a single word.

A Gringotts vault was deep. A Hogwarts vault was deep.

Had it been enough? Would it ever be enough?

He sat down next to his wife in quiet contemplation. This wasn't a new topic. Once eternity was a concept you could openly discuss not only as a possibility, but as a reality, conversation tended to make interesting turns along the way. Turns would be repeated, argued over, reasoned with. Love and companionship got them through each and every topic.

Except Quidditch. Nicolas simply could not understand the appeal.

He felt her hand squeeze his gently, the way she did the first time he tried to explain his true line of work. Or when he got exceptionally broody, which was once every few decades.

"Are we ready, then?"

He knew. But she would know better.

"If pride will give us pause, love – I believe we have been ready for quite some time."

He squeezed her hand back. "I'll let Dumbledore know. We'll start working on the arrangements."

He kissed her. Once on the lips, once on the forehead. "If all the universe had given me was the chance to kiss your hand at Avignon – "

"I know." Perenelle kissed him back, a taste not even Alchemy could explain.

She had a bright smile.

 **AUTHOR NOTE** : There is so much more I wish I could add to this story. Someday, perhaps. For the curious, Chris Vincent Metzen wrote "The Initiate" and "The Adept", a two-part poem for the _Diablo_ game series lore. He was kind enough to turn into a duelist for this one.


End file.
